


Beds And Bees

by flawedamythyst



Series: Horse And Carriage [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case calls Sherlock and John out of London just before their fourth anniversary. Sherlock uses the opportunity to collect some data.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beds And Bees

John had fallen asleep halfway through the news, nestled in under Sherlock's arm and snoring faintly as he always did when he fell asleep at an angle higher than 20 degrees from horizontal. Sherlock kept track of his long, slow breaths and completely ignored the end of the news and the start of some dull-looking film. If he woke John up now, he'd yawn and stretch and say something about it having been a long day, then go up to his bed, leaving Sherlock behind. Much better not to move, not even to find the remote and turn off the telly.

Although he preferred not to admit it, even to himself, Sherlock hadn't completely foreseen what proposing to John would lead to. At the time, it had merely been the obvious solution to being excluded from John's hospital room yet again and it hadn't been until John turned him down that he'd realised how much he'd wanted it. He had wanted to be linked to John in a way that told the whole world the pointlessness of trying to keep them apart, and that John hadn't wanted that hurt in a completely unexpected way. He knew, logically, that the idea was too unorthodox for a man like John, who still thought of himself as just a normal bloke despite all evidence to the contrary, but that hadn't prevented the hurt. Sherlock had badly wanted to marry him, even if he couldn't have articulated why, and he'd never been very good at not getting what he wanted.

He still counted it as the greatest and most surprising gift that John had ever given him that he'd changed his mind and said yes.

Just thinking about the look John had worn as he said, “Okay, let's do it,” was enough to send a warm glow through Sherlock's stomach, a feeling he had never really experienced until John came into his life. He'd been chasing it ever since, finding himself doing all kinds of things that he'd never have expected from himself just to cause John to smile at him like that again.

On screen, a man was rallying a crowd with racist rhetoric. Sherlock rested his eyes on the images without really taking them in, letting his mind wander to what he should organise for their anniversary, which was getting close again. He had one or two ideas but had yet to pinpoint which John would enjoy the most. There was no point in doing anything if John wasn't going to enjoy it.

John shifted, his hand gripping and then releasing Sherlock's shirt. His snoring paused for a moment as he pushed his face against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock held his breath, hoping he'd stay asleep just a little longer. John let out a tiny sigh, then settled again, and Sherlock let himself relax. He had a bit longer before John woke up and disappeared off to his room.

That was another unexpected benefit of John's place in his life, one Sherlock was still trying to properly understand. Being physically close to John had a beneficial effect on both Sherlock's mood and his clarity of thought that he would never have suspected possible. Before the marriage, he would have thought that being pressed close to another body would be distracting and unpleasant, but it was almost the opposite. Even just simple actions such as holding John's hand or placing an arm around his shoulders as they walked sent a pleasing thrum through Sherlock whilst simultaneously focussing his mind. It was as if having physical evidence that he was close meant that Sherlock's mind was able to concentrate fully on whatever else was currently important.

He found himself seeking out such things more and more often as the relationship that had started with their marriage progressed, pushing through John's reserve over doing them with another man without much difficulty. John was now more than content to be manhandled however Sherlock wanted, even in public (within reason), although he only initiated such things himself in private.

John shifted again and his snoring changed key. Sherlock marked the difference in his mental files on John's sleeping habits. Files that were woefully thin, and largely filled with information about how he slept when he'd dozed off in the sitting room, or in any of the odd places he apparently felt were suited to a nap when they were on an exhausting case. John's usual habits when in his own bed were still mainly a mystery, one Sherlock would dearly love to solve. 

However, it was one thing to nod off against someone on the sofa but quite another to take it into the bedroom and curl up around that same someone every night. That was far more deliberate and intimate. And then, of course, there were certain associations with sleeping together in a bed that Sherlock wanted nothing to do with. He wasn't sure if he could just turn up in John's bedroom one night and climb into bed with him without running up against the issue of sex, even if there had never been any sign that John wanted to broach that subject any more than Sherlock did.

A house on the telly exploded and John shifted at the sound, then blinked his eyes open. Sherlock stifled his disappointment.

“Christ,” said John, awkwardly stretching. “I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“Or the news was just as boring as I suspected it would be,” said Sherlock. John sat up, moving away from Sherlock and leaving the whole side of his body feeling cold.

“It's been a long day,” said John, and Sherlock allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at having predicted that. “I should go to bed.”

“You've found the sofa perfectly serviceable so far,” pointed out Sherlock.

John laughed. “Yeah, but I can't imagine you want to stay here all night and be my pillow. Besides, much longer and my shoulder would be completely messed up tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn't have a response to that because he very much wanted to spend all night as John's pillow but not at the cost of causing his shoulder pain. 

John didn't seem to notice his silence, though. He stretched again, rubbed at his face, then stood up. “You going to be up much longer?” he asked.

“I don't know,” said Sherlock. He hadn't formed a plan for the night beyond keeping John asleep against him as long as possible. “If I am,” he said, “I shall avoid any activities you deem to be too noisy.”

John gave him a grin. “That would be appreciated,” he said. “I'm not really up for middle-of-the-night violin playing tonight.”

“Are there any nights that you are?” asked Sherlock. John had made it very clear, several times, that there were set hours for the violin and that breaching them would result in a great deal of glaring and silent fuming.

“Not really,” said John. “Well, not unless it's something soothing. That dee-dah-dee-dah-dah-dee-dee thing is nice.”

Well, that was a pretty obvious hint, even if John's attempts to replicate the tune of Vivaldi's Winter were less obvious. Sherlock got out his violin as John headed upstairs, waited until he'd heard him use the bathroom and head back up to his room, then started to play, sending the notes winding up to where John was tucked in bed and wishing that he could follow them.

****

A week or so later, John brought the post up when he came in from work and dropped it all on Sherlock's stomach where he was stretched out on the sofa. Sherlock was midway through an article on the effect that parasites had had on the decline of honey-bees and made an affronted noise at being distracted. He was completely ignored.

“Tea?” asked John. “And I'm not taking no for an answer unless you've eaten or drunk something since I left this morning.”

Sherlock hadn't even moved from the sofa since John had left that morning. “Oh, if you must,” he said, picking up the post. 

He went through it quickly, dropping the uninteresting bits on the floor, which was most of them. A couple were from potential clients, so he opened them. “Ugh, why do people think I have an interest in their unfaithful spouses?” he asked, dropping the first on top of the pile of bills and junk mail. The next one seemed more promising, right up until the third paragraph. He dropped it on the rest of the post. Surely there must be an interesting case somewhere in the world?

“Laptop,” he said, just as John was sitting down. John paused in the act of sitting, let out a sigh, then stood back up and went to get Sherlock's laptop.

“So ridiculously lazy,” he muttered as he did so, which Sherlock didn't bother listening to. 

He checked his website, then opened his email account. Junk there as well, why on earth was he subjected to this endless barrage of rubbish? 

He read the only non-junk email through, then let out a satisfied breath. This might be worth something. He handed the laptop to John. “Read that,” he said.

There was silence as John did so, his forehead wrinkling slightly as he took it in. “The Ku Klux Klan?” he asked when he'd finished. “In Hampshire? Really?”

“Unlikely,” agreed Sherlock, taking the laptop back from John. “I expect it's someone with a strange sense of humour, but it might be interesting.” He opened up Skype, entering the details from the email.

Mr. Openshaw was online, just as his email had said he'd be. When Sherlock connected to him, he responded almost immediately. The video image showed a man in a cluttered office, clearly a freelance writer with an aunt in Wales and an unhealthy interest in wild flowers, but the quality of the camera didn't give Sherlock much to work with beyond that.

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked.

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “I received your email.”

John stood up and walked around to stand where he could see the screen but wasn't caught by the webcam on Sherlock's laptop. He wanted to listen in, but didn't want to be part of the conversation. Either he didn't want to introduce himself, or he hadn't decided yet if he was interested in helping out with this case. Sherlock hoped for the former – cases without John were never as much fun as those when he was at Sherlock's side.

“Oh good,” said Mr. Openshaw. “Will you help? I didn't know where else to turn – I can't imagine the police doing more than treating it as a joke.”

“I have yet to decide,” said Sherlock. “I need further details. When, precisely, did you receive the first letter?”

“Ah,” said Mr. Openshaw, blinking rapidly. “Oh, it must have been Saturday.”

“And it was just as you described?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, I've got it here somewhere,” he said, starting to rummage through one of the stacks of paper beside him. “Here.” He held the envelope up to his webcam so that Sherlock could see the typed address, then he turned it over to show the _K.K.K._ written on the inside of the flap. Again, Sherlock was hampered by the bad quality image and so couldn't identify anything about the make of envelope or the ink used. He would need to see it in person.

“And there was absolutely nothing except the seeds inside?” he pressed.

“No,” said Mr. Openshaw. “I just thought it was a joke, or a mistake or something.”

“And then your dog was killed,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Openshaw. “Barney. He was just lying on the lawn, and there was a burning cross beside him. It was so bizarre – who does that kind of thing in this country?”

“Indeed. Did anyone see anything suspicious?”

“No,” said Mr. Openshaw, shaking his head. “Our house is down a long drive – you can only see the lawn if you're coming here. I was in this office, which is on the other side of the house, and Tammy was at a friend's.”

Interesting, thought Sherlock. Whoever did it must have known they could rely on not being seen – killing a dog and setting up a flaming cross was unlikely to be easy or quick, unless you were practised at it. They must have known that the wife was going to be out, and that Openshaw was prone to spending many hours in his study.

“There's been another one since I emailed you,” said Openshaw. “It came this morning. Same thing, just the five pips inside, and K.K.K. on the envelope. Tammy's terrified – she's convinced we're going to be murdered. I know it sounds silly – why would anyone around here get upset by an interracial marriage these days? - but they've already killed our dog. Please, you have to come.”

“Is your wife there now?” asked Sherlock.

Mr. Openshaw shook his head. “She's at a neighbour's,” he said. “But she didn't see anything – I cleared the lawn before she could see Barney. I didn't want her to be upset by it.”

“You mentioned she was American,” said Sherlock. “Which part precisely is she from?”

“Michigan,” said Mr. Openshaw. “Near Chicago.”

Not an area well known for Ku Klux Klan activities. Sherlock thought for a moment, balancing the chances that this would turn out to be interesting with the hassle of leaving London. If the case took too long, he might be forced to stay the night down there. John shifted in his peripheral vision, and a sudden thought came to him, followed by an inspired idea. Oh, this was going to be perfect.

“We'll come,” he said. “I shall contact you when I know when we'll arrive.”

“We?” asked Mr. Openshaw.

“I have a colleague – Doctor Watson. He'll be with me,” said Sherlock, and wondered how it was that he could actually hear John's silent irritation at the assumption he would go. He would go, of course, he always did. He just liked to be asked first, which was a ridiculous waste of breath in Sherlock's opinion.

“Oh, right,” said Mr. Openshaw.

“Be sure to keep safe until we arrive,” said Sherlock. “Take all the precautions you can, both you and your wife.”

Mr. Openshaw nodded. “Yeah, we will,” he said.

Sherlock bid him farewell and then closed the connection. He allowed himself a few seconds to appreciate that he had a case that appeared to be reasonably entertaining, then started looking up train times.

“ _We're_ going, are we?” asked John.

“You don't have work for the next two days,” Sherlock pointed out, running through the best way to timetable the next few hours to get the desired result.

“You could try asking me before deciding what I'm doing with them,” said John. Predictable, but Sherlock needed him in a good mood for this to work. 

He looked up from his laptop long enough to meet John's eyes and say, “John, I would greatly appreciate your assistance on this case.”

John huffed, then nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “When are we leaving?”

“Soon,” said Sherlock, looking back at the screen now John was dealt with. “Let me just do some research first.” He actually knew very little about the K.K.K. - it wasn't an area he'd thought would turn out to ever be related to British crime. It seemed extremely unlikely that an actual Klan member was involved in this case, but the perpetrator likely had a level of knowledge about them that Sherlock would have to at least match, if not surpass.

He spent the next couple of hours reading everything he could find about American racist organisations and ignoring John's increasing confusion over the fact that they didn't seem to be going anywhere. He'd apparently given up on Sherlock ever moving and sat down with a book when Sherlock checked the time, then shut the laptop and sprang to his feet.

“Time to go!” he said, heading for his room. “Our train is in half an hour.”

“What?” said John. “Sherlock, it's nearly nine! You can't honestly mean to go down there tonight.”

“I can, and we are,” said Sherlock, leaving his bedroom door open as he started to throw some clothes in a bag so that he could still communicate with John. “This can't possibly wait until tomorrow morning – they may both be in terrible danger.”

“Even if you solve this in half an hour, we'll miss the last train home,” said John.

“Almost certainly,” agreed Sherlock. “I'll find us somewhere to stay the night, don't worry about it.” In fact, he had already booked somewhere, but John didn't need to know that. The more last minute this looked, the more believable it would be. “Go and pack, we need to leave in ten minutes.”

“Of course we do,” muttered John, but obediently disappeared upstairs to get his things. Sherlock allowed himself a smile at how well this was going, then turned back to his own packing.

****

As Sherlock had calculated, when he texted Openshaw to let him know they were on their way down, he said that it was a bit late and he'd meet them tomorrow morning to discuss the case, rather than make them come all the way out to his rather remote house that night.

“We'll go straight to the B&B,” announced Sherlock to John. “Then to Openshaw's early tomorrow.”

John stared at him. “I thought the point of going there tonight was to get started on the case?”

Sherlock waved that away. “I am getting started on the case. I am examining the data.” He waved his phone at John, on which he was still looking at information about the Klan.

“And you couldn't have done that at home and then got a train tomorrow?” asked John.

“We'd have wasted half the morning travelling,” said Sherlock. “This is far more efficient.”

John opened his mouth as if to argue that, then just gave a little shake of his head and said, “Right, of course.”

Sherlock kept his attention firmly on his phone and his face in an expression of studious interest, but inside he was bouncing with glee. This was actually going to work.

****

They walked to the B&B from the station. John was beginning to look really wiped out, which worked in Sherlock's favour. The more tired he was, the more likely he was just to go along with whatever Sherlock said, as long as it involved sleep.

“Reservation for Holmes,” he told the woman at the front desk. 

She glanced from him to John, and then gave them a beaming smile as she got the key. “I'm Mrs. Martins. You're both very welcome here,” she said, emphasising _both_ too much. “I do hope you have an excellent stay.”

“Thank you,” said John. Sherlock took the key out of her hand without bothering to add a response of his own.

“You're in number twelve,” she said. “It's just up the stairs, then down to your left. Do you need me to show you?”

“We can manage,” said Sherlock, and started up the stairs before she could say anything else.

He heard John huff out a sigh, pick up his bag – no doubt with an apologetic smile to Mrs. Martins – and follow him.

Sherlock found the door and opened it, then took a moment to survey the room before heading inside. It was exactly as he had hoped.

“Huh,” said John, looking over his shoulder. “There's only one bed.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, sweeping inside and putting his bag on it. One bed and no sofa, no chair large enough to sleep in, not even enough floor space for a grown man to lie out on. Perfect. “It was all they had left at such short notice.” A small lie, but one John would hopefully never find out about.

“Oh,” said John, shutting the door behind him and putting his own bag next to Sherlock's. “Well, I suppose it's a pretty big one. Or are you not sleeping tonight?”

“The case hasn't properly started yet,” said Sherlock, popping his head into the bathroom and noting with satisfaction the tiny bathtub. There was no way John would be able to sleep there either. “I shall catch a few hours.”

“Right,” said John, looking back at the bed, and Sherlock could almost see him mentally carving it up in his mind. “Well, if we're going to be up early, I'm going to bed now.”

“I want to be at the Openshaws' by 8,” said Sherlock, throwing himself onto the bed and resisting the urge to roll along the width of it, over the place where John was going to be lying very shortly. He pulled his laptop out of his bag instead, wondering just how good the wi-fi the B&B's website had promised was. “We'll be leaving at 7.30.”

“Right, definitely going to go now then,” said John. He opened his bag, hesitated and glanced at Sherlock, then took the whole thing into the bathroom. That didn't matter. Sherlock had no interest in watching him change.

Sherlock worked out the B&B's wireless password at his first try, sighing to himself at the predictability of the hospitality industry. Well, it saved him from going all the way down to ask at Reception. He checked his website's forum and his email automatically, but there had been nothing new since they'd left Baker Street.

John came out of the bathroom dressed in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. Both looked worn and soft, and Sherlock silently approved. They would be nice to touch.

“Right,” said John, hovering awkwardly by the bed. “I'm going to bed.”

“Yes, I can tell,” said Sherlock.

John glared at him. “Well, are you going to move over, then?”

Sherlock took in his placement on the bed. He had placed himself right in the centre automatically, but there was still enough space on either side of him for John's body to fit, if he didn't stretch out too much.

John put his hands on his hips. “I'm not letting you have the majority of the bed, Sherlock. And don't even think about stealing the duvet in the night – I will get violent if you disturb my sleep.”

Sherlock had absolutely no intention of disturbing John's sleep – the faster he went to sleep and the longer he stayed so the better. He huffed out a sigh and moved over, reminding himself that he would be able to get closer again once John had dropped off.

“Right,” said John and climbed in, curling up with his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched the back of his head for a few minutes, taking care to keep typing to hide where his true interest lay. John's posture started out stiff, but within a few minutes he had relaxed into something far more natural. The line of his shoulders was particularly pleasing, and Sherlock's hand itched to run along it, but he restrained himself. Not yet.

He shut down his laptop and got up to get ready for bed, anticipation building in his stomach. So close – all he had to do was wait for John to fall asleep.

He turned out the light when he was ready and slid into the bed next to John, who seemed at least half asleep now, although his breathing had yet to deepen enough to signify true sleep.

After a couple of moments, John spoke. “If I have a nightmare,” he said in a slow, hushed voice, “don't get too close. I don't actually want to hurt you.”

Interesting. “You have nightmares less than once every two months these days,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it's a strange place,” said John. “And it's quiet here. You can always hear that you're in London at home.”

That was true. The B&B was far enough from the centre of town to be extremely quiet, especially when compared to the continual buzz of Baker Street. Sherlock tried to imagine what Afghanistan had sounded like at night, but had to admit to himself that he didn't have enough data. John hardly ever talked about the war.

“Noted,” he said. It would be fascinating to observe one of John's nightmares first-hand, but Sherlock would still prefer it if John slept peacefully tonight. It would make his plan easier to put into practice and ensure that John didn't have any negative emotions associated with sleeping next to Sherlock - if he was ever able to manoeuvre them into this position again, he didn't want John to have a reason to put up any resistance. Sherlock found, though, that those reasons paled alongside his desire not to see John in distress. He hadn't been aware that he felt so strongly about even small, relatively harmless things like nightmares upsetting John.

He turned that over as he waited for John to fall asleep, testing his own emotional responses to different levels of John's hypothetical suffering. Not for the first time, he thought about how John was able to constantly provide new data, both about himself and about parts of Sherlock that he had previously been unaware of. The surge of affection that went through him at that was particularly strong and he smiled to himself in the darkness, tracing the shape of John's head on the pillow next to him with his eyes.

John's breathing had slowed to a steady pace, roughening to what was almost but not quite snoring, filling the room with the proof that John was alive. It was a lot softer than the way he snored when he was propped up in a chair or against Sherlock, and somehow more soothing. Sherlock waited as patiently as he could for five minutes to pass, then carefully shifted closer, making sure to keep his movements slow and relaxed, as if he were asleep as well. John didn't react at all, not even when Sherlock was pressed close enough to feel the warm length of John's body against his all the way down.

He spent ten minutes carefully measuring all the sensations that their positions allowed, the details about John's sleep that were only obvious from this close and the differences from when he slept against Sherlock on the sofa. Eventually, when there was no more data to collect, he risked putting his arm around John.

John's reaction was immediate. He let out a gentle sigh, then slumped back against Sherlock's body, almost trapping him with his weight. It was possibly the most amazing thing Sherlock had ever felt and he could barely think past the pleasure of it for several minutes. John felt so perfect against him like this and he couldn't stop himself from entangling their legs, despite the risk that it would wake John.

It didn't, and he was able to wrap himself completely around John, detailing every scrap of data about the experience that he could and recording them indelibly in his memory.

He dozed off eventually, despite his intentions to stay awake for the whole night of having John like this, and woke up to find John shifting away from his hold. He automatically tightened it.

“I need to pee, Sherlock,” said John in a hushed voice, and Sherlock let him go, blinking his eyes open to find that it was morning. That had not been part of the plan – he had been going to move away before John woke up. John didn't seem to care that Sherlock had been clinging to him as they slept, but that might just be because he was clearly still mostly asleep. He shuffled into the bathroom, looking rumpled and soft in a way that made Sherlock want to pull him back into bed so that he could hold on to him again.

Interesting. He sorted through his observations of the night, momentarily overwhelmed by the wealth of data. He would need to take several hours to analyse it all properly, but the initial conclusions were that the experience had been an unqualified success. He felt far more relaxed and content than he usually did when he first woke up. The sensation of a night pressed against John seemed to have calmed him in a way he usually associated with just after he'd solved a puzzle, but it was lingering in a way post-case satisfaction never did.

The case! Now that the main point of this trip was accomplished, he could turn his mind to it fully, solve it, and then get back home to where he could properly sort through all his new data. As John had yet to express any opinions on how he had woken up, negative or otherwise, there was no rush to work out precisely what it all meant and whether it shed any light on the continuing mysteries of Sherlock's reactions to him. The case could be allowed to come first for a few hours.

He sat up, reaching for his phone.

7.36. Much later than he had intended. Clearly, having John in his arms had a negative impact on his ability to wake up on schedule. He added that information to all the rest, to be thought about later, then threw the duvet aside. “John! Get dressed! We need to leave immediately.”

“No, we don't,” called back John. “It's far too early to call on someone. I'm sure Mr. Openshaw would prefer us to wait a bit.”

Sherlock started rooting through his bag for clothes. “We've wasted a whole night already!” Wrong, of course – last night had been anything but a waste, but John wasn't to know that. He needed to act as if the sole reason for coming here was for the case, or risk giving the game away. “I'm sure he would prefer us to solve this sooner rather than later.”

John opened the bathroom door, his toothbrush in his hand. “Sherlock, calm down. We'll get there soon enough, but there's no rush.”

Sherlock made an aggravated noise that was completely ignored as John went back into the bathroom to finish cleaning his teeth. Surely John could see that there was no point in waiting around now that it was morning, even if he didn't to know the full reason behind the delay?

Apparently not if the relaxed way he took a shower and got dressed was anything to go by. Sherlock sped through his own morning routine, then was forced to wait for John, sitting on the bed with his leg jiggling. Thoughts and images from last night crowded into his mind and he resolutely pushed them back and locked them away. _Later,_ he promised himself. There was a case now, and it promised to be an interesting one. That had always come first before, there was no reason for that to change.

When John eventually declared himself ready, Sherlock leapt up and headed for the door. “Come on, then,” he said.

“Don't suppose I'll be allowed any sort of breakfast?” asked John as he followed him. Sherlock just made an aggravated noise in response.

There was no one at the desk, but Mrs. Martins was easy enough to find, laying out breakfast in the dining room. “Good morning,” she said. “I do hope you slept well.”

“Fine, thank you,” said John, pandering to dull social niceties as always.

“We need a taxi,” said Sherlock. “Immediately.”

Mrs. Martins blinked. “This early? Bob – he's the local driver – doesn't start until nine, most days.”

Sherlock stared at her. “There's only one taxi driver.”

“Not much call for taxis around this way,” she said. “Most people have their own cars.” She pursed her lips. “You might get someone out from Southampton or Winchester, but they'd probably take so long to get out here that you wouldn't do much worse waiting for Bob.”

Sherlock let out a despairing noise.

“It's not that long till nine,” she said. “You sit down and have some breakfast, and he'll be here by the time you've finished.”

“Breakfast?” repeated Sherlock with disdain. “Why on earth would I-”

“Breakfast sounds lovely,” interrupted John quickly.

“There's black pudding this morning,” said Mrs. Martins, and John's whole face lit up. Sherlock groaned.

“We're eating,” John said to him. “Well, I am, you can do what you like.”

“I'll give Bob a call, let him know you want him here,” said Mrs. Martins, and bustled off.

John sat down at a table and Sherlock sank into the seat opposite him. This was why the countryside was so insufferable – none of the basic things were available at the times that Sherlock needed them. Next time, he'd hire a car, and damn Lestrade's 'if you ever drive again, I'll confiscate your skull.'

John ordered a full cooked breakfast when Mrs. Martins came back.

“Well, that'll do wonders for your middle-age spread,” said Sherlock.

John glared at him and Mrs. Martins tutted. “Oh, surely he's got a good few years to go before he has to worry about that.”

“Not that many,” muttered Sherlock.

“Sherlock, shut up and order something,” said John.

Sherlock heaved a massive sigh. Breakfast was an almighty waste of time, John knew that. “A pot of tea,” he said to Mrs. Martins.

“Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?” she asked. “I can do you a nice egg, or some toast maybe?”

“Just tea, please,” repeated Sherlock through gritted teeth. He had said what he wanted, why was she still questioning him? It was all included in the price of the room – surely the less he ate, the better it was for her business?

“Don't bother,” said John. “He won't eat while he's sulking.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright. “I am not sulking,” he said. “Just because this place is too backwards-”

“Yes, all right,” cut in John. “Try not to get carried away.”

Sherlock slumped again. John was right, of course, no sense in alienating Mrs. Martins until he was certain they wouldn't need to stay another night, but that didn't make this whole thing any less annoying.

John ate every scrap of his breakfast, practically licking the plate clean, while Sherlock drank his tea and ran mental extrapolations on what John would look like in ten, fifteen, twenty years if he kept to their current lifestyle, compared to if he found himself a wife who'd make him cooked breakfasts and bring home cake from the supermarket on a weekly basis. He'd be far healthier if he stayed with Sherlock. He wondered if he could use that as an argument if John ever did decide to marry someone else. Unlikely, as living with Sherlock and participating on his cases was always going to be a more dangerous life than a slow build-up of heart disease risk factors.

“That was lovely,” said John to Mrs. Martins with a big grin. “Nothing like a proper cooked breakfast.”

She smiled at him as she took his plate. “It's much the best way to start a holiday, isn't it?”

“We're not on holiday,” said Sherlock, his eyes on the clock. Ten more minutes until the very earliest they could expect the taxi.

“Oh, right,” said Mrs. Martins.

“We're here for work, I'm afraid,” said John. “It's a shame – it seems a lovely area. I'd love to look around it properly.”

“There are some gorgeous walks around here,” she said. “If you find you have some time to spare, I could give you information about them.”

John glanced at Sherlock, clearly trying to gauge just how welcome a walk in the country would be if this case turned out to be not worth the travel down here. It was a hopeful glance, not just an assessing one.

“You might as well,” said Sherlock. He had undergone far worse hardships than a country walk for John, after all. “But don't count on us having time for it.”

John beamed. “Then, yes,” he said to Mrs. Martins. “That would be lovely.”

Her smile back was even wider than it had been before. John's charms must be working their usual magic on her. Sherlock mentally upped the amount of rudeness he could get away with before they were both asked to leave.

“We'll be in the lobby,” he said, jumping to his feet. If they were lucky, maybe the taxi would arrive early.

It didn't. Sherlock paced the tiny space, nearly shaking apart with irritation. John leaned casually against the wall, the satisfaction of having eaten a plateful of saturated fat clearly making him mellow. Sherlock just hoped he'd be able to run if the situation called for it.

“Here you are,” said Mrs. Martins, coming in with a handful of leaflets. “I think this one is the nicest one, but if you're pressed for time, one of these might be better.”

John took them from her. “That's great, thank you,” he said.

“Oh, it's no trouble at all, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

Sherlock stopped pacing to watch John's face as he failed to process that. “He's Watson, actually,” he said. “Doctor Watson.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Martins. “Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-” Her eyes darted down to John's wedding ring.

“Ah, yes,” said John, looking down at it himself, as if he'd forgotten it was there. “We decided to keep our names.”

“Oh, I wish I could have done that,” said Mrs. Martins. “Margaret Martins – it just sounds so silly. I was a Webb before – much better. There wasn't a question about it back then, though; becoming a wife meant changing your name.”

“I suppose that's the benefit of being two husbands,” said John. “You can dispense with all the customs that you're not interested in. Our wedding was very untraditional.”

“Oh, that must have been nice,” said Mrs. Martins. “How long have you been married? Or civil partnershipped, or whatever the term is.”

John had to stop and think, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh. How could he find it so difficult to remember one simple fact? “About three and a half years,” John said eventually.

Sherlock did let himself sigh at that. “Three years, eleven months and twenty-four days,” he corrected.

John blinked. “Oh, wow, are we nearly at our anniversary again?”

Mrs. Martins laughed. “My husband can never remember either.”

“A year just seems to go around awfully quickly,” said John, defensively.

The front door opened before Sherlock could point out all the ways that that statement was ridiculous. A man in a worn fleece, who had eaten breakfast in a bit of a hurry – cornflakes and black tea - and who had at least three teenage children, entered. “Someone order a taxi?”

“Yes!” said Sherlock. “Finally!” Time to actually start on this case.

****

In the taxi, Sherlock could feel the pre-case excitement beginning to build. This one had the potential to be interesting and different – Ku Klux Klan-inspired notes and a dead dog? This could be wonderful. Shame the dog had been cleared away, of course, but people were sentimental about pets. It would probably have been buried somewhere where it was simple enough to exhume, though. He wondered if John's doctor skills extended as far as animal autopsies.

“Here, what's this?” said the taxi driver, and Sherlock pulled his thoughts away from dog corpses to look at the road. Ahead of them a driveway branched off into the woods, and there was a police car at the end of it, drawn across the drive to block it off.

“That's the address you wanted,” said the taxi driver.

More than just notes and a dead dog, then. “Oh, this just gets better and better,” said Sherlock. “Let us out here.”

The taxi pulled over and Sherlock jumped out, closely followed by John. 

“I'm afraid you can't go past,” said the policeman standing in front of the car. “It's a crime scene.”

Try and find out more about the crime, or bluff their way past so he could get a look for himself? An easy decision. “I am aware of that,” said Sherlock. “We're the forensic experts.”

The policeman looked doubtful. Excellent. Doubt meant that part of him thought it might be true. Must be a big crime, then, something the local force weren't used to and which might require personnel to be called in from elsewhere. “I didn't hear anything about any forensic experts,” he said.

“Didn't you?” asked Sherlock, striding around the car. “I should speak to your D.I. about his communication skills, if I were you.”

“Don't worry,” said John, giving the policeman one of his reassuring smiles as he followed Sherlock. “We won't let on that you were out of the loop.”

The policeman still didn't look convinced, but he didn't stop Sherlock and John from heading off up the driveway.

“Let's hope this isn't the time we get arrested for trespassing at a crime scene, yeah?” said John quietly, once they were out of earshot.

“Don't worry,” said Sherlock, pulling out his mobile. “I shall inform Lestrade that we need access.”

“What do you think happened?” asked John.

“Isn't it obvious?” replied Sherlock as he dialled Lestrade's number. “There's been a murder.”

****

Lestrade sounded exasperated on the phone, but he did say he'd find out who was in charge and let them know his crime scene was about to be invaded.

The driveway was long enough to make Sherlock start to get impatient. When they finally turned a bend to find the house in front of them, the gravel area in front of the lawn covered with police cars, he let out a sigh of relief.

“Christ, that's a lot of police,” said John.

“Probably the first murder they've had around here in ages,” said Sherlock. “Well, that they've noticed.” He could see the D.I. talking to someone on his phone and scowling. Probably Lestrade – talking to him always made Sherlock want to scowl as well.

The D.I. hung up when he spotted them and strode towards them. “I don't know who you think you are-” he started.

Sherlock stuck his hand out. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” he said. “This is my colleague, John Watson.”

The D.I. was derailed by the ingrained instinct to respond to a polite introduction. He took Sherlock's hand, although the scowl didn't fade. “D.I. Ford. This is my case, and I don't need you here.”

Lestrade hadn't been as effective as Sherlock had been hoping, then. “With all due respect,” he said, which meant none at all, “this was my case first. My client called me in yesterday.”

Ford grunted. “Because of the notes,” he said. “Yeah, he told us.”

“I take it the wife is dead,” said Sherlock. “I'll need to see the scene.”

“Will you?” asked Ford. “Oh, well then, by all means, be my bloody guest.” His scowl deepened. “I don't need amateurs coming around and trying to tell me how to do my job.”

“He's not,” said John before Sherlock could unleash the scathing reply that deserved. “That is, he's not an amateur, and he's not telling you how to do your job.” Not yet, he wasn't. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from doing so for much longer, even if doing so was likely to only get them thrown off the property. “It won't hurt to let him take a look,” continued John in his oh-so-very-reasonable voice. “And it may well help you. Lestrade must have told you that.”

Ford gave them both a narrow look, but Sherlock could see he was starting to waver. John was proving his worth once again.

“If you already have the case solved, of course, there'll be no need for me,” Sherlock said.

“I wouldn't say solved, but I've one or two ideas,” said Ford.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “The husband, I'd imagine?” He glanced over at John. “They always assume the husband, then ignore anything that doesn't fit with that.”

Ford glared at him. “That's not true,” he said. “There's these notes – that's a bit off, for a domestic. I've got someone looking into any possible Klan connections in the area.”

What an enormous waste of time, Sherlock thought but refrained from saying. He still needed to see the crime scene, after all. “Excellent,” he said, and from John's glance he noticed the dryness in Sherlock's tone, but Ford didn't. “I have done extensive research into the Klan and similar organisations. If you show me the crime scene, I'll be able to tell you whether or not it looks like their work.” A few hours on the internet probably counted as extensive research down here.

Ford rubbed a hand over his face and looked away into the trees, clearly torn. After a moment, he sighed. “You really think you can tell me something I don't already know?” Ah, he was willing to sacrifice both his pride and adherence to procedure in the interests of getting results. Good, Sherlock would be able to work with him.

“I'm sure of it,” he said.

Ford sighed. “Oh, fine then,” he capitulated, and Sherlock allowed himself a smile. “This way,” he added, turning away and striding around the side of the house. 

“Not in the house?” asked Sherlock, keeping up with his pace easily while John tagged along behind, almost having to jog.

“No,” said Ford. “She's at the stables. Went there first thing every morning to look after the horse, according to the husband. He says he stays in bed, then makes breakfast for when she gets back. This morning, she didn't come back.”

The stables were quite a distance from the house, through a badly-maintained garden. There was a large field attached to them, in which stood a small mare, standing back and staring at all the commotion going on with interest.

Tammy Openshaw was just outside the stables, collapsed across the path and covered in blood. Stabbed three times through the chest, almost certainly with garden shears. Sherlock would have known that even if they hadn't lain a few metres away, stained with blood. Next to the woman was a wooden cross, which showed scorch marks. There had been a fire built around the base, as well as an attempt to make the whole thing flame.

“Was this still on fire when she was found?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said Ford. “We put it out when we got here. The husband was too worked up to do it.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes already darting all over the scene. He'd start with the body.

Dressed in business casual, but with an old mac over the top, and a pair of wellies on her feet. No socks. Dressed for work, but left off her shoes and covered her clothes while dealing with the horse. Interesting – why did she put her nice clothes on before coming here at all? Easy enough to have changed when she got back to the house, surely?

She wasn't wearing her wedding ring, though there was a mark where it had been. Took it off to protect it? Possibly. Sherlock took his own ring off when he was working with certain chemicals, and he knew John took his off for various medical procedures and when trying to unblock the sink. The rest of her jewellery was still on her, mass-produced and generic. No help. Her hair had been styled for work, pinned up and sprayed into place. It had become dishevelled at some stage, probably while she was being murdered.

The stab wounds were violent, but inexperienced. The shears didn't appear to have any fingerprints on them – the killer wore gloves? At that time of the morning, at this time of year, it would have been rather cold. Almost everyone out and about would have been wearing gloves. The victim had a pair in her pocket; old, heavy ones. Kept them with the jacket for use in the stables. Also in her pockets was a packet of tissues, some gum and her keys, both a set for her car and her house keys. House keys had two sets on, one battered and old, one gleaming and new.

Wellies probably kept in stables as well. Distinctive tread on the bottom, should be easy enough to track where she'd walked in them. Her legs were bare beneath them – must have been cold with the skirt. Why no tights? Distinctive smell on the skin of her legs. What was it? Think!

Behind him, John let out a sigh as Sherlock bent closer to get a clearer smell. “Just don't lick this one, okay?”

Sherlock ignored him. He didn't know why John kept bringing that up – he'd only ever licked one corpse. Well, one that John knew about, and there had been a perfectly valid reason for it. Doing so had solved the case, in fact.

He ran through his internal database of female skincare products and their smells, and felt his eyes widen as he located what he could trace on this woman's dark skin. Oh, interesting.

Nothing else to learn from the corpse. He stood up and scouted around the area, tracing the path of her boots around the stables as well as getting an idea of the area.

There was a path leading off round the paddock in the opposite direction to the house. “What's down there?” he asked.

Ford glanced down the path. “I think it heads down to Mill Lane,” he said. “Look, have you got anything yet?”

“I've got plenty of things,” said Sherlock, and headed inside the stables. Just inside the door hung what must have been the coat she wore to work, a smart black one. Placed underneath were a pair of business shoes with a pair of tights rolled up in them. She'd taken them off when she arrived and changed, probably to prevent a ladder. She'd been trying to make sure she remained presentable for work.

“Ah,” said Sherlock.

“What?” asked John, who had followed him around the stables, diligently looking at everything Sherlock did, although Sherlock doubted he'd seen half of what was important, or made any of the right connections even if he had.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock. “Let's take a look at that cross, shall we?”

He went back outside, ignoring John's muttered, “Oh no, don't tell me, that might ruin your big finish, you melodramatic git.” John knew how he worked.

The cross had been made from two long sticks, presumably found in the woods near-by. They had been inexpertly nailed together, soaked with petrol, and set alight.

“Found the petrol can?” asked Sherlock.

“No,” said Ford.

Pre-prepared, then. Wounds said crime of passion, but this much had been pre-meditated. Possible that the perpetrator only intended to set up the cross as a warning, and then been interrupted and reacted with murder.

There was another nail hammered in near the top of the vertical stick, on which was hung a wedding ring. It was lightly charred but not seriously damaged. Sherlock peered at it. “Is this the victim's?”

“The husband said it was.”

Sherlock discarded his theory of an interrupted cross-burner. There would be no reason for him to have put that nail in unless he knew he would be hanging the wedding ring from it.

“He thinks it was racists,” continued Ford, “opposed to an interracial marriage. Well, you know about the notes.”

Sherlock nodded, took one last look at the cross, then turned away. “What can you tell me about the couple?”

“Not much, not yet anyway,” said Ford. “They moved here about five years ago, been married a bit longer than that. She was American, but I don't know how long she'd been over here. She was an estate agent in Winchester, he's some sort of writer. He must be pretty successful to afford this place, but I don't know anything he's written. Neither of them socialised much in the village – I don't think they even came to the Christmas Eve carol-singing, and everyone goes to that, even the atheists.”

Good god, how unbearably twee.

“I see,” said Sherlock. “I shall need to speak to the husband.” And see the house, but he wasn't going to say that. He wasn't going to give away more clues than he had to when he was so close to a solution.

Ford led them back to the house and John came up to walk close to Sherlock. “You've already got it all figured out, haven't you?” he asked in an undertone.

“Most of it,” admitted Sherlock.

John shook his head. “I have no ideas at all,” he confessed. “Where does the Ku Klux Klan come into it?”

“It doesn't,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John, surely that was obvious from the start?”

John gave him a familiar, exasperated look, and Sherlock found his smile growing in response. This was a good one, he was going to enjoy revealing this to John.

The back door to the house was open and Sherlock stopped to inspect it as they went through. The locks had been changed very recently. Oh, this was really too obvious.

John Openshaw was in the sitting room, sat on the sofa in a classic pose of slumped depression, his forehead in his hands. He looked up as they came in. “Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I'm afraid you're too late.”

“There's still time to catch the culprit,” said Sherlock, glancing around the room. It was obviously kept fairly tidy - the only sign of clutter was a small pile of women's magazines on a side table, dating back several months, although the wedding photo was askew on the mantelpiece.

“Oh, I don't know-” started Openshaw, but Sherlock wasn't having that.

“You asked me to come all the way from London to look at those letters for you. Surely you're not going to send me away without letting me do so?”

Openshaw looked torn for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Fine, fine,” he said, standing up. “It doesn't matter now. They're in my study, upstairs.”

Sherlock followed him upstairs rather than wait in the sitting room. They passed the front door, and he took a look at it. “You've changed both sets of locks within the last week,” he stated.

Openshaw gave him a startled look. “Uh, yes,” he said. “My keys went missing. I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.”

Sherlock nodded.

The study was a lot messier than the sitting room had been. It was clear Openshaw spent a great deal of time here, and there were stacks of paper and books all over the desk and across part of the floor.

“They're just here,” said Openshaw, laying his hands on the envelopes immediately. An organised chaos, then. He handed them to Sherlock, who let out a sigh the moment he saw them. Oh, too obvious. He took a moment to examine them properly, checking the pips and the penmanship, then passed them to John, in the faint hope that something of his methods had rubbed off on him finally, and that he'd see what Sherlock had. From the cursory look John gave them, it was obvious he hadn't.

Ford took a look at them as well, but Sherlock had even less hope of him finding anything.

“It is a great shame I didn't come out and see these last night,” said Sherlock. “Your wife might still be alive.”

Openshaw started. “You think you could have prevented her death?”

“Of course I could have,” said Sherlock. “Did you really think they would remain anonymous forever? That they are your handicraft is immediately apparent.”

Openshaw went white. “You're accusing me of writing them?” he asked.

“Here, steady on,” said Ford. He looked at the envelopes again. “What makes you think that?”

“I don't think, I know,” said Sherlock. “It would be obvious to anyone who has made even a basic study of handwriting.”

Openshaw drew in a deep breath and pulled himself up as tall as he could. “I don't know what you're implying, Mr. Holmes, but I really think this is better left with the police, now that Tammy is dead. I would appreciate it if you and your colleague-”

And there was the chance to test the final part of Sherlock's hypothesis. “Husband,” he interrupted. He reached for John's hand as he said it. “John's my husband,” he repeated, making sure to push every inch of pride and satisfaction that he felt at that fact into his voice.

Openshaw flinched, glancing at their hands with disgust for a split second before he covered the reaction. Just as Sherlock had expected.

John stiffened and pulled his hand out of Sherlock's grip. Not quite as Sherlock had expected. He'd known the gesture would make John uncomfortable in a professional setting, but he had thought he would probably allow it. That he didn't was rather more upsetting than Sherlock might have expected. He wondered what it said about the way John viewed their marriage.

“I think it's definitely time you both left,” said Openshaw.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “I think we're done here, don't you, John?”

“You've solved it, then?” asked John.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I dare say the Inspector has as well, haven't you?”

Ford scowled. “Still only got the obvious assumption.”

Ah, yes, the conversation earlier. Well, there was a reason why it was the obvious assumption. “But now there's proof,” said Sherlock.

“Is there?” asked Ford sceptically.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “You only really did a mediocre job of covering up, didn't you, Mr. Openshaw? I imagine you rushed it a bit when you discovered I was on my way down to see you. Tell me, did you decide to kill her as soon as she told you she was leaving, or only after you'd found out she'd moved in with another woman?”

Openshaw went so red that for a moment Sherlock thought he was going to escape prison by having a stroke. “What?! How dare you suggest-”

“I'm not suggesting,” said Sherlock. “I'm stating. It's obvious! Tell me, what were you going to do when her lover turned up and told the police that your wife left you over a week ago? Or were you planning to kill her too – oh, yes, of course. Some completely unrelated accident, am I right? No way to connect the two events, and both of them would have been punished.”

“So you think it's the obvious too, then,” said Ford. Apparently he wasn't willing to let that one go. “And where's your evidence?”

Sherlock sighed. “It's all the same evidence you've got, only I actually thought to connect it all properly.”

“Sherlock,” said John, and it was his stop-grandstanding-and-just-explain voice. He didn't need to say anything more than Sherlock's name to make Sherlock's mind stop running through all the ways that the police were constantly getting stupider, and immediately switch to working out the best way to lay it all out for John.

“Just over a week ago, Tammy Openshaw left, taking with her a bare minimum of personal belongings. No doubt she intended to come back for the rest later, but Mr. Openshaw changed the locks before she could,” he started.

“I changed them because I lost my keys,” interrupted Openshaw.

“Then why did your wife only have keys for the old locks in her pocket?” asked Sherlock. “There were new keys on her ring, but they were two Yale keys. This house has Chubb locks. The new keys must be for wherever she's been staying – her girlfriend's. Add in that no one would go to look after a horse in their work clothes unless they really had no choice, and she clearly couldn't have been living here. She parked in Mill Lane and walked along the path by the meadow to the stables, avoiding the house, and you, completely.

“She's been doing the same every morning on her way to work since she left, so you knew you'd have a chance to kill her without witnesses, but that suspicion would immediately fall on you, so you set up this ridiculous Ku Klux Klan ploy, no doubt inspired by the showing of Mississippi Burning on television last week. You sent yourself a couple of so-called threats, murdered your dog to make it look genuine-” he turned to Ford, “you'll probably want to exhume the corpse for evidence,” he added. 

Ford just nodded slightly dumbly. Sherlock turned back to Openshaw. “And then you contacted me, thinking that getting a detective involved would muddy the waters and lend credence to the whole thing. A mistake, really, you should have known that one proper look at those envelopes would tell me you'd sent them. Look, you've used the same pen to write this,” he pointed out, pulling a page of notes out from the middle of a stack of books.

“This is all just wild conjecture!” spluttered Openshaw. “Really, Inspector, how can you listen to this?”

Ford gave him a shrug. “I like to hear every theory.”

“It's not a theory,” said Sherlock. “It's what happened. He pre-prepared the cross, though his carpentry skills leave a lot to be desired, then attacked his wife with the shears he knew he'd find in the stables. Clumsy, but it probably turned out to be more difficult than he was expecting. Murder often is.”

“What about this girlfriend you mentioned?” asked Ford. “We've found no sign of her.”

“Of course you have,” said Sherlock. “You just haven't recognised it as such. Her moisturiser was the biggest clue.”

“Her moisturiser?” repeated John. “What, there's some special skincare range that only lesbians use?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “Sexuality has no bearing on how you tend to your personal appearance.”

“Well, then how-” started Ford. Sherlock didn't bother to let him finish.

“It had a very distinctive smell,” he said. “I've mentally catalogued the smells of three hundred and twelve different moisturisers, but that work would have been unnecessary in this case. Almost anyone with a passing familiarity would have recognised it as a tanning moisturiser, although it's unlikely they could also tell you the brand: Johnsons Holiday Skin. But why would a black woman be using a tanning moisturiser? She wouldn't, not unless there was no other choice. Her husband locked her out of the house before she could get all her stuff, including her moisturiser. She hasn't gone to buy any more, which says she has the basic necessities – toothbrush and so on, so she took a small bag, and has been too busy or preoccupied to worry about buying replacements for the rest.

“At some stage, probably last night from the stubble growth, she shaved her legs and then borrowed moisturiser from the woman she's staying with, who only had the tanning kind. There's something fairly intimate about sharing something like that – whoever she's staying with, she's close to them. Not family, must be a girlfriend. Why else would she have shaved her legs at all, with so much else going on this week? Not for work, she was wearing tights. Must be a new lover, one she wanted to impress.” He thought of John, never failing to get his hair cut at some stage between the first and third date with a girl he particularly liked. “People do that kind of thing, for their lovers.”

John was wearing Sherlock's second favourite expression: the you're-a-genius look. “You got all that from the smell of her moisturiser? Amazing.”

“You-” growled Openshaw. “You- She wouldn't do that kind of thing. She just wouldn't – she wasn't that sort.” Disgust dripped from his voice.

“Clearly she was,” said Sherlock, “and she did. Several times this week alone, I should imagine. There is usually meant to be a lot of sex in the first week of co-habitation, wouldn't you say, John?”

“Usually,” agreed John, looking amused. Possibly thinking of their first week of co-habitation, when John had shot a cabbie, Sherlock had set fire to the kitchen blinds and they'd had a blazing row over the playing of violins in the middle of the night, but there had been absolutely no sex. Or perhaps he was thinking of the first week of co-habitation post-marriage, when John had spent two days watching back-to-back episodes of Red Dwarf, Sherlock had uncovered a plot to steal a duke's antique tea-cup, they'd been jumped by a group of thugs in an alleyway, and they'd had a blazing row over whose fault it was that the extractor fan in the kitchen had packed up again, but there'd still been no sex.

They'd both been good weeks, thought Sherlock, and the thought distracted him just enough so that when Openshaw let out a roar of anger and threw a punch at Sherlock's face, he wasn't prepared for it.

John was, though, and he'd blocked it and had Mr. Openshaw in an armlock before Sherlock could react. “That's enough violence, don't you think?”

“I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station,” said Ford.

“You're arresting me? On the word of this twat?” asked Openshaw.

“Oh no, it's not an arrest. Just questioning,” said Ford. “Until we can properly gather all the evidence.”

“He burnt the gloves he was wearing at the base of the cross,” said Sherlock, “but I expect you'll be able to get some sort of forensic evidence from the coat he was wearing. And the dog, of course, he won't have covered that up as well. I doubt he expected anyone to look that closely at it.” 

“Don't worry,” said Ford. “We'll go over it all very carefully.”

A brief look of defeat crossed Openshaw's face and Sherlock nodded, confident that there would be something even the police would be able to find. He glanced at his watch. “Well, we're done here then, John. We'll have to walk back to the B&B, but we should still be able to make the 10.47 train home.”

He started down the stairs, not watching to see if John was following him. He'd catch up eventually, he always did.

****

By the time they'd made it back to the road and started to head towards the B&B, Sherlock's good mood at solving the case had dissipated, leaving him with nothing but the uncomfortable feeling that had been growing since John had shaken off his hand in front of Openshaw and Ford. His brain started to catalogue precisely when and how John allowed his touch, and when he initiated his own, and started to draw some tentative conclusions from that. None of them were good.

“Can't we stay a bit longer and do one of those walks Mrs. Martins gave us leaflets for?” asked John.

“No,” said Sherlock. “We need to get back to London.” He wanted to be able to play his violin. 

John let out a sigh. “Come on, Sherlock. Would a country walk kill you?”

“Right now? Yes,” said Sherlock, decisively enough to shut John up.

John was silent for a bit after that, thankfully, then said, “It's not your fault, you know. You weren't to know that he was planning to kill her this morning.”

The change of subject made Sherlock blink. “What? Of course it's not my fault. I didn't put a pair of garden shears in her chest.”

“Well, no,” said John. “Exactly.”

Sherlock gave him a look that he hoped expressed his annoyance at this topic. “Do be quiet, John, if you can't say anything that makes sense.”

John let out a short sigh, but thankfully remained silent.

****

A few days later, Sherlock was lying on the sofa when John got home from work. John looked at him.

“Have you moved since I left this morning?”

Sherlock ignored him.

John's lips quirked unhappily. “If I make tea, will you drink it?”

The thought of consuming anything right now made Sherlock's stomach turn over. He shut his eyes, cutting off the sight of John's worried expression.

“Right,” said John and went away into the kitchen. Sherlock stayed exactly as he was. Moving was too much effort right now.

His mind seemed stuck on John pulling away from his hand and he couldn't work out why. In the same way as he'd been unable to work out why he wanted to be close to John when he'd never cared about such things before, or he'd been unable to explain his desperate desire to sleep curled up around John, or was still unable to account for why just the memory of that night was enough to make something in his chest relax into a warm glow. 

None of this made any sense, and the hours he had spent lying on the sofa thinking it over and correlating the data he'd gathered hadn't helped at all. He was no closer to solving any of it. All he was really sure of was that he wanted to spend the night with John again, and only partially in the hopes that repeating the experiment would yield more helpful results.

John had pulled away from him, though. Sherlock had thought they were passed the stage of their marriage where John pulled away from him – he had worn away at the assumptions John's heterosexuality had caused him to make about acceptable contact with other men, and they'd both been happier for it. Or, at least, Sherlock had thought they were.

There was a strange, cold spot buried deep in his chest that reminded him of the larger one he'd experienced after John had turned down his initial proposal of marriage. He hadn't really understood where that one had come from either – John's reasons for saying no were entirely what Sherlock would have predicted for him, and probably similar to what every other 'normal' person would have said. Still, his rejection had made Sherlock want to hide away in a dark room until whatever the feeling was had passed, and it was only when John changed his mind that the coldness had melted away.

And now here he was again, still unable to properly understand his own reactions to John, let alone control them. From the start, his attitude towards this marriage had been to pursue the things he found he wanted as assiduously as he could without causing a negative emotional reaction in John, even if he didn't understand why he wanted them. He had presumed that at some stage, he would either manage to connect it all together into something that made sense, or John would find some woman and the whole thing would become irrelevant.

The last serious relationship with a woman that John had engaged in had come to an end just over a year ago. Since then, he had indulged in a handful of one-night-stands and had a brief flirtation with a teacher that had mainly revolved around their mutual love of extremely bad spy films. It had fizzled out before John had even got to the stage of spending the night, largely because of John's lack of commitment. Clearly he had stopped putting effort into looking for a woman, although that didn't mean one wouldn't fall into his lap, or that he wouldn't change his mind later. Still, Sherlock thought that it was safe to say that, as things stood, he didn't have to worry about being asked to make good on his promise to divorce John in order for him to marry someone else.

While on the one hand, knowing that he would not have to deal with the upheaval and loss that would be associated with John leaving him for a woman was a relief, on the other it made Sherlock feel as if he should have a much better understanding of where they stood with each other, and what all these things he found himself wanting meant. Not to mention what John thought about the whole thing. Was he only here because it was easy and convenient, and because he was a creature of habit?

Certainly, his routines were important to him – witness his automatic journey to the kitchen to make tea when arriving home. Was the marriage just another of them? They had been married long enough now for something like falling asleep on Sherlock to be a habit. How long could convenience and routine keep him by Sherlock's side? And what would happen if the routine changed, or if it was no longer convenient? Sherlock couldn't imagine ever wanting to be anything other than the Consulting Detective who lived at Baker Street with his faithful blogger, but one day he might get bored of it, and eventually he would be too old for it anyway. Would John follow him if he moved on?

The very worst thing about this marriage, thought Sherlock, and it was on a very, very short list, was all the confusion it brought with it. Why couldn't this just be simple and obvious and make sense, like a crime once he'd solved it, or judging the state of Anderson and Donovan's affair just by glancing at them? This whole thing was almost as bad as trying to divine all the many layers of Mycroft's motives for doing anything.

John made him a cup of tea despite Sherlock's clear lack of interest in such a thing – another of his habits - and brought it back into the sitting room, setting it down next to the sofa. The smell was enough to make Sherlock's stomach complain and he summoned all the energy he could and turned over so that his back was to the room. He pressed his face into the back of the sofa, wishing he could just be sucked down into it, be insulated by the padding against the rest of the world.

John's sigh was unnecessarily loud and followed by the sounds of him settling down in his chair with his own cup of tea.

“Are you going to be like this for much longer?” he asked. “You need to eat something.” 

Sherlock winced to himself but didn't respond otherwise, and there was blissful silence for a bit.

“Is this still about Tammy Openshaw?” asked John. “Sherlock, I told you. You couldn't have known-”

Sherlock couldn't hold in the disgusted noise that burst out of him. John did insist on thinking that Sherlock cared about people enough for these things to bother him. The case was over, why would he still be dwelling on any of the details to do with it? He was torn between exasperation at how little John had observed about him and an unaccountable pleasure that he thought Sherlock was the kind of man who would care about a dead woman. Both feelings annoyed him.

John stopped talking and took a deep breath. There was more silence as he drank his tea and Sherlock tried to pull his brain on to a line of thought that didn't end up going in endless, frustrating circles.

Half an hour passed. John finished his tea and started to flick through a newspaper in what seemed to be a disinterested manner. Sherlock curled his hands into fists and kept breathing in the dust on the back of the sofa.

Eventually, John threw the paper down. “I can never get used to how quiet it is when you're like this,” he said. “I think I'd even prefer you to be blowing up the kitchen, or trying to kill me with violin shrieks.” Sherlock wanted to protest that he'd never blown up the kitchen, and that he'd only set it on fire four times. That would have involved talking, though, and he was uninterested in attempting that.

“Actually, I think I'm in the mood for some decent violin music,” mused John. “Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, maybe, as you're clearly in that kind of mood.”

That jolted Sherlock's limbs into life enough to tip him onto his back, where he could stare incredulously at John. He'd been attempting to educate John on violin music for years, and he still never had a clue which composer Sherlock was playing, or the titles of any of the pieces beyond the vaguest guesses. For him to get both title and composer at once was unheard of.

John twitched a self-satisfied eyebrow at him. “Oh, that roused you,” he said. “Yes, I do pay attention to some of the things you try and teach me. Another decade, and I might even be able to work out which bits are Bach, and which bits are Beethoven.” 

Another decade. Sherlock liked the sound of that, especially coming from John. Clearly, while he might not always be part of this, he was intending to be so for a good few years yet. That was definitely something. That gave Sherlock time to keep thinking this all over, and work out which steps John would allow him to take, and which he would pull away from.

That thought triggered another. Sherlock had spent this marriage taking careful steps towards John, reaching out to keep him close and hoping he wasn't pushing too far. With the exception of the incident at Openshaw's, and several occasions at the start of their marriage when it had all been a bit new, John had never pulled away, or even displayed any displeasure with Sherlock's actions. And now he was saying that he intended to still be here in a decade.

Perhaps, in a decade, Sherlock would be able to understand this thing well enough to work out how to keep John with him always. Maybe he'd even be able to understand John's thoughts and reactions properly, so that he never had to run the risk of John pulling away again. 

And, a voice in the back of his head added slyly, just think how many more chances there would be to spend the night in the same bed as him, if he laid his plans as carefully as he had on the last case. John had never actually complained about waking up with Sherlock wrapped around him, after all. Perhaps he never would, and Sherlock just had to keep taking his steps towards him to get access to his bed here at Baker Street as well.

Sherlock stood up and grabbed for his violin. Positive reinforcement of correctly remembered knowledge was essential if he was going to educate John. If he worked at it, he should be able to manage it in far less time than a decade, and then they could move on to other things.

John smiled and settled back into his chair in a way that made Sherlock aware of how tense he had been before. Had it been Sherlock's mood that had made him tense? Why would that affect him? Another mystery to ponder.

He set his bow to the strings and launched into the familiar tune. It was sentimental and over-played, just the sort of thing John liked, and he knew it well enough to be able to keep his thoughts humming along as he ran through it.

All riddles eventually unravelled themselves. If Sherlock didn't yet understand this one, that didn't mean he wouldn't ever. He just needed to continue as he had been, working to gain more data, and eventually the pieces would all fall into place in his head.

****

The next day brought Dimmock with a case file and a scowl. The scowl only increased when Sherlock was able to solve the case without even leaving his chair, and Sherlock was in a thoroughly good mood by the time he'd left, especially as the case had reminded him that his research into perfumes was still incomplete. Rectifying that kept him occupied for most of the rest of the day.

At around eleven, he glanced over at where John was attempting to find something worth watching on telly. “You will probably want to go to bed soon,” he said. “We have an early start tomorrow.”

“Do we have a case?” asked John. “You didn't say.”

Sherlock suppressed his sigh. “No, John,” he said. “It's our anniversary.” Honestly, how was a reasonably intelligent man so incapable of keeping one date in his head?

“Oh,” said John in surprise, clearly doing his usual mental run through the calendar. “Am I allowed to ask what we're doing for it?”

“No,” said Sherlock. What was the point in working out the best way to spend the day if he didn't get to spring it on John and see the pleasure spread across his face? “All you need to know is that we are leaving at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Right,” said John, his mouth twitching up into half a smile as he glanced at the clock. “I suppose I do want to go to bed soon then. Will I need to wear or bring anything in particular?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. The obvious answer was 'sensible shoes', but he had never seen John in anything that didn't match that description. Left to his own devices, he would wear an outfit that would be entirely appropriate for their outing. “We'll have to spend several hours on a train,” he said. “You might want to bring something to occupy yourself with.”

John raised an eyebrow. “This sounds as if it's going to be exciting,” he said. “I think I'll be okay, though – I'll have my husband along to occupy me, after all.” He gave Sherlock a mischievous grin that gave away how pleased he was to have a surprise to look forward to tomorrow.

Sherlock returned the smile with a smaller version of his own, pleased with himself. His annual attempt to show his appreciation that John had agreed to marry him was off to a good start.

****

The train journey passed more easily than Sherlock would have thought. Generally, train journeys that were not taking him to a case were tedious in the extreme, but this one went quickly enough with John next to him, letting him expound on precisely why Dimmock should have been able to solve that case just from glancing at the crime scene, and then list all the similar crimes in recent history, and why didn't the police ever study the history of criminology?

They had to get a bus after the train, but it was empty enough not to trigger Sherlock's dislike of rubbing shoulders with the general public. When they got off and John saw where they were headed, he made a pleased noise.

“Deepvale Country Park,” he read. “I take it I'm getting my country walk, then.”

“Amongst other things,” acknowledged Sherlock. “I thought we might start at the café and get a spot of lunch, and then walk over to the apiary.” He couldn't keep the glee out of his voice at the prospect.

“Apiary?” repeated John.

“Bee hives, John,” said Sherlock, rubbing his hands together. “They have a bee farm here that you can visit.”

“Bees?” asked John, glancing at him. 

“Bees are fascinating,” said Sherlock.

“Ah, right,” said John, clearly considering that. “You have got a few books on them – I thought you'd had a case involving them.”

“One day, I shall keep my own bees,” said Sherlock. It had been an intention of his since he was a boy, but he couldn't remember ever telling anyone that before.

“Not in our flat, you won't,” said John.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “When I retire, and leave London,” he said, although surely that had been obvious.

“Got it all worked out then,” said John, sounding amused. 

Sherlock glanced sideways at him. _All of it except whether or not you'll still be with me then,_ he thought, but didn't voice the thought. Retirement was a long way off, anything could happen before then. John could meet his perfect woman, he could get sick of Sherlock, he might never want to leave London. Best to wait a few more years before Sherlock broached the subject of whether or not John would be with him when he moved to his country cottage.

“There are some details yet to be decided,” he said.

“Of course,” said John, still sounding as if the whole thing was hilarious, although Sherlock couldn't see why.

They walked for a few minutes in silence and Sherlock let himself relax into the mood of the day. The birds were singing, there were still a few flowers around despite the lateness of the season, and John was at his side. Other considerations could wait for a while.

They passed a few other people out and about – a young family, an elderly couple, a harassed-looking leader with a handful of Brownies. It was a lovely day despite being October, and Sherlock was already thinking ahead to their post-lunch walk and what state they might find the beehives in when John reached out for Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock held on automatically, trying to hide the surprise. Last week, John had shaken Sherlock off in front of Ford and Openshaw, but now he was reaching out for Sherlock in public, in front of several people, including the Brownies, some of whom were now staring at them with the curiosity of the young. Clearly, then, whatever reason he'd had for doing so had nothing to do with wanting to hide this, or even not wanting to touch Sherlock in the first place.

Sherlock immediately felt better, even without coming up with other possible motivations, and he squeezed John's hand. He was a constantly evolving mystery, with so much still to find out about him, and hopefully a great many years to do it in. What could be better?


End file.
